


First Love

by RubyLipsStarryEyes



Series: Nobody Really Wins a War [5]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Cardigans, Chocolate, First Love, Fluff, Old Books, Pining, Secrets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-05
Updated: 2019-12-05
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:53:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21686329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RubyLipsStarryEyes/pseuds/RubyLipsStarryEyes
Summary: Old books, chocolate, and cardigans were her first loves...
Relationships: Remus Lupin & Original Female Character(s)
Series: Nobody Really Wins a War [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1531745
Comments: 4
Kudos: 6





	First Love

Cardigans, chocolate, old books and yellowing parchment. They were what she thought of when casting her protronus. They were what she thought of when she was cold, tired, and sick of whatever current situation she’d been dragged into. 

She’d always loved old books and parchment, for as long as she could remember she’d seek out the oldest books, breathing the scent in as if it was oxygen itself. She could just imagine the fingers that had brushed the pages, the eyes that devoured the same words that she now read. The high that brought was better than any broomstick ride she’d been on. 

Chocolate had been her next love. Hot chocolate while skiing with her parents, chocolate bars shared with her dad after school, fancy chocolate truffles that her mum would bring back from work trips in Paris and Stockholm. 

Cardigans though... That she hadn’t found until her seventh year at Hogwarts. He had waltzed in, charming and sweet in cardigans. Blue was her favorite on him, it made his sandy brown hair and gold eyes shine. Most saw his patched robes, his scars, and the dark circles under his eyes; but she saw the sparkle when someone said something witty in class and how he savored his tea in the morning while he chatted with Professor Sprout at the high table. 

He loved chocolate and old books too. He’d told her so, one day when she lingered after class. She’d meant just to tell him that she’d enjoyed his lessons. She’d ended up staying for tea, him taking her into his office and shrugging out of his robes and into a cardigan. He’d shared a bar of his favorite Honeyduke’s chocolate with her and chuckled at her eyes growing wide at his collection of books. They’d spoken of Shakespeare and Dante, Arthur Conan Doyle and Bathilda Bagshot. She’d left feeling as if she was floating through a cloud.

It hadn’t taken her long to figure out what he was. All the signs were there, down to the smoking goblet that Professor Snape would deliver to his office in the days leading up to the full moon. She supposed she was the only one that care enough to read the signs, however obvious they may be. But that was okay. She would keep his secret, because if anyone else knew, he would have to go. 

Which is exactly what happened. The Slytherins were almost gleefully shouting the news across the Great Hall one morning; her heart shattered into a million little pieces. She tried to summon up the courage to go to his office, to profess her love... but she hadn’t been sorted into Gryffindor. She was a Ravenclaw, which is why she took a deep breath, and logically worked through her options. The one she picked was the obvious one; the one that had haunted her for the rest of her life. 

She didn’t go to him. She didn’t write him a letter or fall to her knees as he left the castle. She watched from the courtyard, trying to keep the tears from spilling over and down her cheeks. 

He caught her eye, at the last moment. The soft smile he gave her stayed with her for the rest of her life; as did the small roll of parchment that had been waiting for her on her pillow when she returned to her dorms after she was sure he was gone. 

“I know you knew. Thank you.” 

His gentle appreciation broke the dam, and she cried for hours. She was determined to go on, to move past him and his cardigans. She never quite managed it. 

Even now, years after she’d read the his name in the Daily Prophet as a war hero that selflessly gave his life in the battle against He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, her throat tightened if his name was mentioned in ministry meetings for Werewolf Rights, and she never could resist running her fingers over the blue cardigan she’d found that looked so much like his. She never wore it. She kept it folded neatly in a drawer with a bar of His favorite Honeyduke’s chocolate and the small roll of parchment that was now old and yellowing. But sometimes... just sometimes... she would take them out, and have a piece of chocolate while she ran her fingers across the weave and read the final words that he’d left her.


End file.
